Читать книгу Splendid Joy - Marguerite Williams - Страница 9

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WHATEVER Martyn Royce did, he did thoroughly, and in the days that followed, he put the whole force of his will into the wooing of Clare, as years before he had put it into the winning of success—when he had determined to reach his harbor even though through a sea of rejection slips, and find the plenteous land beyond. Now, though the goal seemed far easier of attainment, he had less self-confidence.

Once Martyn had won Iva Charteris—the beautiful woman whom others had courted. If Wilfred had never opened his eyes; if, later, he had found himself with a wife whom he could not love; he would have abided by his mistake, and never moved a finger to get the things that he had missed. But now he owed Iva nothing. He would use the experience the courtship had given him—weaving it into his work—and forget the woman.

But right into his bitter lonely thoughts—his feverish, saving work—Clare had slipped so quietly. He had not recognized her presence until she was established and at home. Now, old queer dreams of happiness came back to him, bringing hunger for treasures beyond his waking knowledge.

Martyn knew the power that Nature puts into the hands of a man, to win the woman of his desire. He kept the power under control that the spirit of his dreams—to him so infinitely higher than Nature—might become a wonderful reality. That Sunday by the sea, he might have won Clare had he chosen. Clare did not know that, but Martyn did. But he knew that if the woman only in Clare responded to the call of the man in him, he might find one day that the soul which had lured him had eluded him. Because he wanted such a great thing he would not snatch at the lesser; and before the splendor of the great thing he could not be self-confident.

Those were wonderful days to Clare. Her explorations in the realm of a new personality discovered for her some things that startled but many more that interested her. She accepted Martyn’s companionship without self-questioning. She never made a simple situation complex by uncomfortable analysis.

One day they found a sheltered nook at the top of a wooded hill. The trees hid the houses below. The branches overhead formed a cool green shade, shielding them from the heat of the sun, while letting in glimpses of the sky. Beyond—framed by the trees that grew on the hillside—lay the Bay, its waters deeply blue, its distant banks rising in high hills, against which nestled the old-fashioned town.

Clare was sitting on the grassy slope, leaning against the fallen trunk of a tree. Martyn was stretched on the ground beside her, his hands clasped behind his head, his eyes on the fresh green above him which dappled the blue beyond. If sentiment was troubling him he hid it very well. His talk was of mundane realities.

“Any man with brains can get rich easily, if that’s what he’s out for,” he was saying. “But if it’s something more than money he wants, he must fight for it—sometimes for years.”

Clare was wondering when he would tell her about himself. It never occurred to her to start any man on the road of self-revelation, though she was quite capable of leading him dangerously on once he was there.

“I had the chance of making a good income when I was twenty,” he explained, unexpectedly answering her thought, “but I wanted to be free to work out my own life, so I let the income go. It didn’t pay at first. It does now.”

He turned and looked up with a smile.

“You’re not inquisitive,” he remarked.

“You don’t say—‘You’re not interested,’” she challenged.

“No. I know.”

“You know too much,” she protested.

“Well?” he demanded.

“Well”—she echoed. Then she gave in with a smile. “What did you do instead of making a good income?”

“Sure you’re interested?” he asked with a laugh.

“You know,” she reminded him.

He turned away again. “I scribbled,” he announced casually—to the overarching leaves.

Clare’s eyes lit up.

“What did you scribble?”

“Oh, generally articles in those days. Bits of life. Sometimes scientific things. Character sketches. Anything to get my hand in. I’ve always been interested in every sort of problem. I like to tackle the things that set people wondering. The biggest job for years was to find my real market. You’d never guess what paid for my lodgings while I was searching for it.”

“Fashion articles?” she suggested gaily.

“Slogans,” he said with a laugh. “Catchy phrases about somebody’s biscuits or beef. I was great at them. I expect my influence has often been round you on your marketing days and you have never known.”

“What a weight of responsibility for you! And now?” she demanded eagerly.

For a big moment Martyn was silent—to enjoy that eagerness. Then he said, still casually, as if it were not there:—

“I still scribble; but I don’t have to go after editors and publishers now—they come after me. That’s the difference: that and the income.”

“Can any man reach that stage who doesn’t accept handicaps at the start?”

“Who doesn’t rough it, you mean?”

“Who isn’t willing to be poor.”

“Just the few can, perhaps. But you must live if you want to write of life. Have you ever been really hungry? I mean with the sort of hunger that makes you understand why people steal.”

“Only once,” Clare admitted, “and I am afraid that was due to folly. Still it was real.”

“Well—what did you think of it?”

“It was an experience.”

“Good! Never regret your experiences.”

“I never do.”

“There’s an awful lot of rubbish talked about starving,” declared Martyn, who had only faced it for himself alone. “I’ve been starving—but I’ve known many things that hurt far more. Starving isn’t the worst part of being poor.”

“No, I know,” agreed Clare, “unless there are children. One can call it fasting—and then it doesn’t hurt.”

“But—shirts!” supplemented Martyn, feelingly.

“Poverty is hateful!” Clare’s face was flushed. She was seeing terrible, crowded rooms where simple decency was impossible; where beauty was unknown.... But the sun was shining, and the earth was glad. “I should like to read something of yours,” she added impetuously.

He tried to keep delight out of his voice.

“Yes, I think you would. But you must wait,” he said provocatively.

“Why, sir?”

“Why? Don’t you know that waiting is good for us all?”

“You don’t,” she retorted with decision.

“No, I don’t,” he agreed. “I only think that the parsons think that I ought to think it, and I thought you would agree. You know, you are only pretending that you are comfortable, and pretending is a sin. Let me just put that woolly thing behind you.”

He got up and folded her sports coat that had been lying on the ground and put it comfortably at her back. “Try that.”

She leaned back obediently, and looked up at him. He did not know what his eyes betrayed. He was caught unawares when he saw their faint reflection in her own. Abruptly he turned and moved away.

He paced the narrow grassy slope between the trees—stooped to pick up something that had no value—threw it energetically away—came back—but not so close. Nature was too terrifically strong to play with. He took out a cigarette, lit it and stood leaning against a branch of a tree. He was not going to make love—yet.

Clare was studying the veining of a leaf. Some new influence vibrating all around her was making her throbbingly alive in every nerve. She had thought and feeling for the man who was asking of her, and thought and feeling overflowing to the wonder of a leaf.

“You are a kid,” Martyn said suddenly, and she looked up to meet his smiling eyes.

“Why—what’s the matter with me?”

“I didn’t say that anything was the matter. Only you think you know so much of life, and you don’t know anything—of the most important things of all.”

“But I do,” she declared, hearing his thought more clearly than his words, and wanting to take her place beside him.

“You don’t really know what temptation is,” he persisted.

“You mean—” She hesitated, for words; for no one had ever talked to her as frankly as Martyn talked. Conversation with him made vocal words that had been known only to sight. Then she added honestly:—“There’s a big potential sinner in most of us.”

“You’re very fortunate if it’s only potential,” he said grimly. “You don’t really know what hand-to-hand fighting with the devil means. Some men can’t help going wrong.”

“I can’t believe that,” she protested. Her faith was of a Power that was infinite. It had never failed her yet, and she had drawn on It greatly.

“For some,” he asserted, thinking that she had not looked beyond her woman’s world, “it’s almost impossible to keep straight. I’ve known men go down at the first call of the sirens. I think I understood it. I haven’t done the same, but that’s no credit to me. I’m sinner enough anyway; but I always hated coarseness—and when you hate a thing it hasn’t much power over you. But I’ve done other things....”

He was speaking in matter-of-fact tones. He was trying to be honest. He imagined that he wanted Clare to understand him. Yet he never told her that he was hard and self-righteous and unforgiving and lonely and obstinate and self-sacrificingly kind. Perhaps he did not know. Neither did he know that Clare’s illumination would never come down the track of his words. When his lips had said “scoundrel” his eyes had said “friend.”

Clare was looking at the hand resting on the branch; it was patched with shadow edged with light. What a strong living hand it was!

“To me, sins of the mind are worse than sins of the body,” he went on. “If I abuse my mental powers and use them for wrong ends, I’m worse than the adulterer. The one form of vice doesn’t tempt me! the other is alluring—and infamous.”

Clare turned her eyes to the blue waters beyond. She felt that she was about to launch out into the great untried deep—and not alone. This man standing before her, talking to her gravely of things that had never entered her life—the man who had helped her, but had not made love to her—wanted her, needed her, and presently would tell her so.

Quite suddenly Clare knew, with deep conviction, that Martyn Royce needed her as much as—even more than—she had needed him. She felt the unconscious appeal that lay behind his blundering half-confession. For the first time she was in the presence of a great need that she felt she had the longing and the power to satisfy.

But she must not stop to realize—now. She must go on talking. Something wonderful was happening, but she must ignore it until Martyn himself should tell her: tell her the great secret that was already her own.

“Why don’t men and women have greater faith in their ideals?” she suggested; and her voice had a queer little shake as if it were not quite at home.

“You mean—why don’t they marry for love only?” he paraphrased quickly.

She nodded, looking down at the silver light that lay on the sun-kissed leaves.

“They think that they love. Nature gets them there! But passion is only one little part of love—the lowest. When they have outlived that, what have they left? I know a couple who’ve been putting up with each other for years; not loving, not hating—just indifferent. They go on living together because they’ve always lived together. If one died it wouldn’t matter vitally to the other. The world doesn’t call their lives a failure, yet I can imagine no more pitiable Dead Sea fruit than theirs.”

“As we see it,” amended Clare.

“We see it as it is!”

“But I’ve come across quite enough married love to keep pessimism at bay.”

“Why, of course. So have I. It’s one of the finest sights on earth! When love comes, everything is possible.” ... But Nature was growing too dangerous in that beautiful, quiet wood. He tossed away the end of his cigarette. “Now we’ll go for a sail,” he said.

Daring—he held out his hands and drew her up. “You haven’t seen the heavens open yet!”

Her eyes questioned him shyly.

“That’s true,” he asserted, “and I’ve not forgotten.... You will when you love.”

With a sudden movement he drew her close; then, as suddenly, he dropped her hands.

In that moment Clare realized the strength of his self-control, and, wonderingly, she was conscious of the passion of his love.